Absolut Eurovision

Saturday night’s Eurovision was an absolute corker and a feat of competition that I was able to dance, sing and shout at to my heart’s content.

Marcus was out with his cigarillo-smoking renegades, no doubt fleecing them for a pound or two, so I kicked back with a bottle of Absolut, pot of pickled herring and a hairbrush-microphone for maximum Euro fun.

Amidst the (frankly joyous) haze of vodka and Euroglitz I can remember the following highlights:

a) Everyone on the TV fancied the boy from Norway, who won. He was really bogging, although a dab hand with a fiddle, proving that people are attracted to success and skills.

b) Turkey were the most strategic and cunningly-competitive of the countries. They made their lead singer look like Shakira and/or Beyonce, thus foxing voters into voting for quality that WASN’T REALLY THERE.

c) Ronan Keating’s contribution to Denmark was a shambles, but frankly no man who writes a song as offensive as “You say it best, when you say nothing at all” should be allowed to enter Eurovision in the first place.

d) I missed Lloyd Webber’s dirty old man accompaniment to UK singer Jade Ewen because I was struggling in the kitchen with a Finnish drink Bernard told me about. You do this thing where you smash a load of black boiled sweets and throw them into the vodka then heat the bottle so you end up with these delicious shots. But I couldn’t get the sweets into small enough pieces so I bashed them with a rolling pin and covered the kitchen with shrapnel. I woke up next morning and found a message from Marcus saying “are you plotting to kill me?” Then noticed that most of the sweet shrapnel had lodged itself in his bowl of peaches.

When I’m done with this non-competing bit of my life, I am going to enter Eurovision, dress up as Katy Perry and bring home first prize. How hard can it be? Nowhere near as hard as turning a bottle of vodka black.

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